Ailetah ll hetaliA
by Hazelstiltskin
Summary: "As deep as the water that links us is our passion to survive. And in order for us to survive? I'm sorry to say this, but there is no way that you can live." World meetings are cliche, aren't they? Let's add a twist: an imposter shows up at a meeting. And then two. Next, ten. As more imposters spawn, the nations must find a way to fix this problem— or face certain doom. [1P&2P!]


The Kingdom of Great Britain.

An island that spanned over 88,745 square feet total and was split between the nations of England, Scotland and Wales. There were over a hundred smaller islands that added to this land mass's diversity. Many ancient buildings and monuments reflected that of Rome's influence. Soccer had originated here, as well as Double-Decker buses and many other unique aspects that the world had picked up on and used globally to this day.

This is the island that the nation of America currently found himself on. To be specific, he was currently walking down one of the streets of England. The Queen's country.

America knew the winding streets and mazes like the back of his hand; who _wouldn't _want to be here?

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the whole Revolutionary War thing that had happened between the Briton and American.

A day spent strolling up and down the old pavement streets of England and trying out various foods had proved to be quite relaxing to the nation (not to say that England's sights or cooking would _ever_ top America's own). He had even picked up a souvenir of a tiny dolphin keychain at an aquarium, which was now safely buckled to a belt loop on his jeans.

"Maybe I should travel more. What do you say, Sir Gwendal?" America sought advice from his keychain. It stared up at him in reply. "Sounds good, man! To the moon it is!"

Yes; today was certainly a relaxing and most normal of days, America decided as he stopped outside of a quaint coffee shop. He ordered a cup of black coffee and exited the building to enjoy the drink in peace.

That was when his phone rang.

_"Look at that booty, show me the booty, give me the booty, I want the booty…"_

America immediately dug into the pockets of his jacket, searching for the phone that currently was blasting the song. Pedestrians gave him odd looks as they continued past. "No, this is my business phone… Ahh, this one isn't it, this one is my prank-call phone… Bro, I don't even _know_ whose phone _this_ is!"

The ringing stopped.

"… Well, shoot!"

What if it had been his boss? Why would his boss even want to speak with him?

…It was probably nothing. _Totally_ nothing. If it were important, his boss would call again, right? America dismissed the call as a butt-dial and took another sip of coffee.

About ten seconds passed before the ringing and vibrating started again.

"_Down for the booty, I want the booty, hunting the booty, chasing the booty…"_

The frantic searching and patting began once again.

"Found it!" America suddenly exclaimed, wiping pocket-lint off of the screen and bringing the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"_Hello_?" Came the reply.

America's face lit as he recognized the voice as _not _his boss's. "Spain? Hey, what's up, dude!" Well, there _had _been two phone calls… What if the first had been his boss? America was compelled to check. "You called?"

"_A-America_?"

"Who else would it be, man?" America asked, a brow setting curiously. What, did Spain not expect America to answer his own phone? He edged out of the middle of the sidewalk and leaned against a street lamp. "Is there a reason you called because I'm sort of in the middle of something." America reached down to give Sir Gwendal a pat.

It was a bit odd for Spain to be calling him, America noted. Maybe this had to do with the upcoming meeting? What would Spain be asking _America _about?

…

_Oh, no…!_ America bit his lip. This _surely _wasn't about that time he had accidentally spilled coffee all over Spain's suitcase, was it? He had made sure to set the cup in a sleeping man's lap and bolt, there was no way he could've been caught! … Right?!

There was no reply.

"Hello?" America felt weak in the knees. He took a sip of coffee to settle his mind. "Earth to Spain, you there?"

"_Who is this_?" An undertone of anxiety was easily discernable in the Spaniard's voice.

"America. I thought we went over this." America swallowed heavily. _He doesn't know, he doesn't know, _America assured himself. "Dude, you feeling okay? You're not… getting amnesia, are you?"

Yes, he could certainly blame amnesia.

You had imagined the entire thing, America could say.

Is that so? Spain would reply.

Then they both could laugh and pat each other on the backs as if they were old pals and could go on their merry ways.

"_You… you can't be America_." Spain sounded on-edge. "_That's impossible, you're right here! ... Where are you_?"

"Why is that impossible?" America was having trouble stringing together the information fed to him through his phone. Was America answering his own phone as himself really that hard to digest? "Err, I'm outside of a coffee shop in southern England… ? Spain, man, you're freakin' me out, what happened?"

"_If you're America, and you're over _there_… Then who's in my living room_?"

America wasn't sure how to reply. After a beat of silence he piped, "… Is it a prostitute?"

"Idiota_, this is serious_!" Spain's voice grew stern. "_I, I need you to meet me at my hotel in twenty minutes. It's important_."

"But _dude, _that's so _inconvenient!" _America groaned, "I'm really busy right now!"

"_And it was equally _inconvenient_ to have to attend an important business meeting smelling like decaf black coffee_. _Thirty minutes. The Milestone Hotel_. _I'll see you there._"

"But… You—! The sleeping guy, and, and, amnesia-!"

Spain hung up.

* * *

America had finished his coffee in peace, assuring himself that it couldn't take more than five minutes at most. He crumbled the cup in a hand and threw it away, belching contentedly before tugging back a sleeve and peering at his watch.

There were ten minutes left until he was supposed to meet Spain.

"Oh, crap! I have to get to that hotel! Any idea where that is, Gwendal?!" America looked at his belt loop in exasperation. The keychain offered no reply.

"Me neither. It's time to resort to Siri!"

America instructed his phone on where to take him… rather, he _tried _to instruct his phone on where to take him.

_"Did you say, book a hotel room?"_

"No."

"_Did you say, The Mile Bone Hotel?"_

"No!"

"_Did you say, destroy The Milestone Hotel?"_

"What the almighty crap, Siri!"

Why did Siri hate him so much? Why did he keep _using _Siri in the first place?

America switched tactics.

"Hey, you! You, with the face! Come here!"

"M-Me?" The woman he'd pointed to stared at him with wide eyes. "Yes?"

"Do you know where The Milestone Hotel is?"

"U-Uhm…" The woman hesitated and then relayed to him the directions.

America recited these directions in his mind. "Thanks, lady!"

With that he was off.

He took about thirty steps and had to stop.

"… Did she say take a right at Cambridge Place? Or was it Cameron Place?"

America looked around, hoping that there would be a conveniently placed map right about now.

He instead noticed a conveniently placed plot device.

A man was standing by a street pole, evidentially waiting for the light to turn green judged on the note of impatience he held in his strikingly pale blue gaze. His face held a note of worry, confusion even.

"Hey, brosef!" America called, trotting up to the passerby. The stranger was fidgeting with a bow that seemed to be quite uncooperative. "Do you know where The Milestone Hotel is? I'm kind of lost and on a bit of a time crunch."

The man looked at him, perking a brow. "I'm sorry?"

"Woah, hey, Britai—" America snapped his jaw shut. The man's expression grew alarmed. "U-Uhh, nothing! For a second I could have sworn you were someone else." _This person shares the same accent and bushy eyebrows as Britain; it isn't _my _fault I mixed them up! _"But back to directions. How do I get to the hotel or whatever?"

The Briton, as suggested by his accent, blinked once, twice, three times. "U-Uhh… The Milestone Hotel? I know where that is. I can… walk you there?"

"Oh, you do? Awesome! Let's go now, then. What direction do we go?" America gushed, rocking from his heels to his toes. He glanced at his watch.

Five minutes. Not bad.

… Okay, really bad. _This is really bad_.

America looked back to the stranger with a hint of desperation.

"We go this way." The Briton nodded towards the opposite direction. "C-Can I ask you something about your hair…?"

America went braindead. The stranger was asking about his hair? At a time as critical as _this_? America defensively reached a hand towards his cowlick. "Oh, this? Nantucket here is just… special, I guess." He wasn't about to delve into the whole country-personification thing. "And wait, this street? Then let's go now, the light is green!" America took a few steps into the street.

"That isn't what I wanted to ask, but… Sweet Sassafras, are you crazy? Why would you go when the light is _green!" _The Briton exclaimed, his eyes wide.

America paused, casting him an odd look. "Because green means go…?"

The man wore a heavily confused expression. America noted that even this man's _face_ was hauntingly similar to that of Britain's.

"Uhh, are you new around here, or…?" America returned to the man's side and cast the crosswalk a puzzled look. Maybe he shouldn't have asked this person for directions, after all. "Dude, let's go before the crossing light turns red. What's your name?"

The lost expression didn't leave the other's face. "… I-Is this a joke?" He seemed to be straining to talk.

America once again found himself shooting a perplexed look towards the Briton. "A joke?"

"Yes, a joke. You… changed your jacket and dyed your hair." The Briton's eyebrows twitched. "But your old jacket was so special to you, why would you…?"

"My bomber jacket? I didn't change it at all!" America glanced down at the familiar brown leather he was adorned in. How did this stranger know about his jacket…? "It's the same as it has been since World War II, not counting the '50' I had added to the back." It took America a moment to realize his error: he had just stated that he'd been alive since 1942. America looked anxiously towards the stranger to see if he'd caught his slipup.

"A… Are you by any chance named Alfred?"

Nope, the Briton apparently hadn't caught the error.

"Alfred?" America repeated. "Well, I mean…" Sure, Alfred F. Jones was a farce used for signing into hotels and doing normal human activities, but not his _name_. Then again, it wasn't as though he could simply say that his name was _America. _"… No? Hey, wait a second, I asked you your name first!"

The man's eyes narrowed slightly before he sighed. "I suppose I'm just… seeing things. You see, you remind me of someone I know as well." He nodded once and extended a hand with a tiny smile. "My name is Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

America nearly choked. "Your name is _Arthur Kirkland_?"

The two stared at each other, America inquisitively and Arthur with sudden apprehension.

_So he looks like Britain, sounds like Britain, and even shares the same fake name as Britain!_

_…_

"That is one hell of a coincidence!" Alfred finally exclaimed, shaking his head with a grin. "Could I get a picture with you, dude? I have a friend named Br- Artie who would totally crack up if he saw how similar you were to him!"

Arthur cleared his throat and tugged at his vest. "Err, all right. But in turn I'll need you to do me a favor."

"Sweet, thanks, bro!" America pulled out his phone and proceeded to take a picture of the man with the carrot-colored hair. He noticed with a faint trace of disdain that they had missed their light; a solid red palm now flashed at them from across the road.

How much time did he have left?

Spain would most certainly kill him for being late _anyways_, America decided, so it didn't matter just howlate he was. (Well, that's at least what he _told _himself.) America allowed a sly grin as his logic was surely correct. "What was the favor you wanted me to do?"

"I need to borrow your phone. I got separated from a friend when we were… when we got here. You know, the Alfred I mentioned? I need to call him."

America nodded and resigned possession of his business phone. "Okay, sure! Go ahead and call him up; I'm going to check my other phone while I'm at it."

Arthur cast the American a look but accepted the phone offered to him.

"Three missed text messages? Who the crap…?" America nearly dropped his phone as it came to life with a sudden vibration.

"_Live for the booty, I like the booty, suing the booty, scared of the booty…"_

America read the caller I.D. He looked up curiously.

Arthur was staring back at America, his face contorted into a cross between horror and confusion at the sound of the ringtone. America glanced down at the phone he held and then back up to the Briton, who currently held the other phone to his ear.

"Hey, how did you know my phone's number?"

Arthur suddenly looked deathly pale. "I… need to go."

"Wha—" America wasn't allowed time to reply as his phone was shoved back into his hands.

"Thanks." Arthur glanced at the red palm of the cross light and briskly walked into the street.

"Arthur, what's going on—Hey, wait, what are you doing? Dude, you can't cross now!" America's words were lost under the shriek of skidding tires on hot pavement. A glint of metal flashed in the corner of his eye.

America's instincts kicked into overdrive.

His phones clattered to the ground as he pounded into the street, adrenaline coursing through his body and his vision suddenly melting into a blur of shapes and colors. His body suddenly felt as light as air, aiding him in closing the distance between himself and the Briton he pursued.

The blaring of a horn filled his ears.

He threw his weight at the vague form of Arthur and in a matter of rapid heartbeats collided with his back. America felt the smaller man easily sway under his heavier influence, sending both flying in a heap of American-Briton across the road.

They slammed against the ground.

Arthur was immediately thrashing and America was too stunned to move.

The car whisked by behind them, its horn quickly drowning into nothing as the vehicle distanced itself from them at a hectic speed.

America groggily sat up. "B-Bro, you've got to be _trying _to get yourself killed! That light was red, are you color blind or something?!"

Arthur shoved America off of his body and stood up, wiping gravel and other debris from his clothes. His pale gaze flashed with panic and anger. "Here is this nonsense again! Sir, I'll have you know that green is for stop and red is for go! Were you schooled on a different planet, perhaps? You could have gotten us both killed!"

America stared at him for a moment. Where was he even supposed to _start_? "I… you… _what?_"

"You heard me! You—" Arthur fell silent. He slowly released a ball of air before shaking his head. "Err, you'll have to excuse me. Just… here, let's get out of the road." He mumbled, uneasily extending a hand. He glanced at the black skid marks now littering the road they had stood on seconds before.

America considered rejecting the help but decided it would only worsen things if he didn't take the hand. "Before we nearly get hit again or something." He agreed.

The two finished crossing the sidewalk. Arthur began leading America towards The Milestone Hotel.

This was all conducted amidst an uncomfortable silence.

"E-Err… Are you sure you're from around here?" America finally asked. "'Green is for stop and red is for go'…?"

Arthur sighed. "I'm honestly not too sure at the moment. My first order of business is to meet with Alfred. Then we can try to sort things out."

America wasn't allowed the time to ask what exactly was to be sorted out when Arthur continued.

"I don't believe I caught your name." Arthur focused his gaze on America.

America returned the gaze with a hint of doubt. He had already denied being Alfred; it looked like he had no choice but to use his actual name. "My name is America."

The expression Arthur adopted was what America was expecting. "America? Is that a nickname?"

"Yup, you heard me. And no, not exactly." America paused.

Was Arthur trustworthy?

… Well, Arthur _had_ thought that green meant go and red meant stop. If he tried telling unwanted ears about America… well, being _America,_ it would be easy to dub him insane and cover any tracks.

That would be awfully drastic, America noted. Maybe he could just dub him drunk?

… What did the word 'dub' mean?

America cleared his throat. "Well, you see…"

* * *

**A/N: Why, hello there! C: Hazel here with another glorious fan fiction, ohoho! The world needs more 2P!, yupyup. Hnng, I really love normal Hetalia, but I also really love the extensions of Hetalia, so expect other branches soon. c: CardverseismycurrentaddictionjustohmygoshCardverseislife- **

**As always, reviews are super appreciated, and stay awesome! **

**Thanks for checking this out, more to come soon!**


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